


Sickness in Dreams

by Stariceling



Series: Resemblance and Remembrance [3]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickness Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stariceling/pseuds/Stariceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bakura experiences one of his other half's dreams, and the aftermath puts him unexpectedly close to Honda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This time rather than delving into Yami Bakura's dream, fic focuses on what happens between Bakura and Honda while he's out.

I think sometimes when Yugi duels both him and his other self are there. One body, one mind, one goal, but somehow there are two of them. I never got to that level with my other self. We sneak in, trying to overthrow the other, but we can’t merge to duel. I think because he doesn’t trust me not to betray him the same way he slips in and edges me into endangering my friends. He’s right not to trust me.

This isn’t a duel. There isn’t even any danger of something appearing while we, or perhaps just our body, sleep. Yet I think our minds have merged for once. We’re both dreaming in the same body, and somehow we’ve fallen into a dream together.

It feels as if the two of us are superimposed over one another. Our separate bodies melded into one. Mine and yet not mine. His and yet not his. I feel lightheaded.

I dream of Honda, waiting for me in a narrow, darkened place permeated by the smell of ripening clay. I think it must be Honda. Even if he had a completely different face and body, I think the feeling that he is like Honda would still reach me.

I smell blood, see it flow hot and dark in the night. I know the feeling of coarse bandages and wounded flesh under my hands. The flesh of someone who is Honda, yet not Honda. As I am myself yet not myself.

I feel, but don’t understand, the irony that I am tending his hurts. I know these wounds were gained through labor instead of war. The turbulent surges of feeling tearing through me almost make me sick. These are not my emotions I am being overwhelmed with, they are all his.

There is so much love in that dark rush of feeling. Painful, predatory, destructive love. A love that would tear apart its recipient before it could let go. A dark and deadly feeling that tastes like poison. It might be hate. He would easily call it hate. Rushing through me, it is a feeling beyond words.

I only want out. I can feel bandaged hands brushing my face, and feel sick, because there is something in those rough, strong hands that feels familiar, though I know I don’t know them. There is something of Honda in this shadowy figure, in his expression and posture there are echos of the Honda I know. Maybe it’s just in my head, superimposing Honda over this memory of another’s loved one.

I hear words, a language I’ve never known before, yet understanding springs into my head, straight from the other’s mind. It is because we are too closely connected. I have never wanted to know his thoughts so intimately, but while we are this close, I can’t seem to shut them out. I need distance, or soon I won’t even be able to think around his emotions.

I sank into this dream alongside him, but I can rise out of it by myself. As I fight my way clear I finally understand why he doesn’t follow me into my dreams. The pure surge of feeling is too painful.

Everything is just as I left it when I open my eyes. Except me. I’m shaking and sweating and scared, and Honda’s turning towards me as if he’s only just noticed. I want to take comfort in him. He’s solid and real and only himself. Honda. Not the Honda-yet-not-Honda from my dream.

I can’t even take comfort from this. I can feel his hate flow through me, through the bond that I cannot sever and he cannot dull in his dreams. Not love, as it was a moment before. Powerful, possessive hatred for his dream, squeezing me from the inside until I can’t breathe.

“Ryou?” Honda catches me when I sway. I can’t help but wonder why he’s holding me, though I know I should just be glad for the support. “Ryou, what’s wrong?”

I can feel the other’s emotions burning on the back of my tongue. Almost too late I realize that it’s only bile, and clap my hands to my mouth.

The next few moments are a stumbling, darkened blur. I can’t say I know where I’m going, or why, or how I’ve gotten out of Honda’s arms.

My knees ache. I’ve fallen on them, leaving me kneeling on a cold tile floor.

Then the only feeling I have thought for is that of being violently ill. All of my muscles shuddering and cramping uncontrollably, and my stomach trying to turn itself inside out and take the rest of my body with it.

And I don’t want to think anymore. I don’t want to feel ever again, if it’s going to be like this.

I’m still shaking when the world bleeds back into focus. When my eyes clear I’m only looking at the blue-and-white tiles that I’ve just bruised my knees on. My eyes can follow the familiar pattern of the bathroom floor now. Something as mundane as making my way into the bathroom to be sick takes a few minutes to piece together, but right now I’m just relieved I can tell where I am and what I’m doing. I’m out of the other’s dream, even if I still can’t get him out of my head.

There’s something warm and solid behind me, supporting me, holding my hair back. Someone. I can feel arms creeping around me, holding me so very safe.

Honda. My Honda. Wonderfully solid and familiar.

He slowly lets go of my hair, peering over my shoulder at my face. I want to smile for him, but I can’t seem to make those muscles move.

“You going to be okay now?” He touches my cheek softly. “Are you going to be sick again?”

I can’t think to answer. The other’s feelings are fading, so maybe I’m okay. I manage to shake my head a little. I don’t think I have anything left in me to be sick with.

He nods, and stands, leaving me. I want to call him back, to ask him not to go, but I can’t make a sound. My mouth and throat are burning.

I hear running water, and try to turn, to stand. My body isn’t listening to me right now. I don’t want to be alone right now. I feel real and solid and here, but I don’t know if blue-and-white tiles and bruised knees are enough to keep me that way. I might fall back into the dream. I don’t know if I could survive it a second time.

As if realizing that I still need him, he’s back before I can find my voice. He’s supporting me again, pressing a cup to my lips. I can’t understand what he wants until he tilts it to let water run cool into my mouth and down my chin.

I try not to choke. Rinse my mouth and spit into the toilet. Rinse and spit again, then swallow. I want to be rid of the burning feeling in my mouth and throat. I wonder if this is the way hate tastes, and I know I’m still not quite coherent. Even in my own head I’m aware that I’m not making sense.

Honda is my anchor, holding me here. For this moment he is my lifeline, my safety. I’m not sure he even knows how solid he is, just by being real and here. Just by being able to put his arms around me, he is reminding me where I am and holding me here.

“Better?”

So much better, here in my own time. I nod shakily.

He touches my forehead, my cheeks. His hands are so warm. I wouldn’t have even realized how cold I am if not for his warmth to provide contrast.

“Can you stand up?”

I try. My legs shake with the effort, but I can’t get off of my knees. When I fall back against him, he doesn’t wait for me to try again. He scoops me up into his arms, and lifts me right up off the floor. I squeak in surprise, and it seems my voice is working again. Then he’s carrying me out of the bathroom.

My vision is widening slowly. For a few moments my world was compressed into only him and me. Now it widens to include the walls on either side, the door, an unmade bed.

This is where he places me, hand on my back to help me sit up instead of simply collapsing. I can’t even tell him how grateful I am that he’s here. The real Honda.

“You’re shivering.”

I nod slowly. He’s worried. It’s all right. I’ll be all right as long as he’s here with me.

“Is your father home?”

I almost don’t understand the question. Why does he care? “No.” I manage to whisper. My voice is working again. My throat no longer burns.

He looks lost. He can’t be lost. He’s the only thing I have to hang on to.

“I can call a doctor for you, or. . .”

“No.” He’s already rising to go. I don’t want to be alone right now. I doubt there’s anything a doctor can do for me now, since I don’t think I’m sick. It’s just aftershocks from the dream.

“I have to do something for you.”

He doesn’t realize he’s already doing the most important thing, just by being here. I push myself out of bed and grab onto him. I don’t want to let him go.

“Ryou, what are you doing? You need to lie down.”

I shake my head at him. I don’t know what I’m doing. If I wasn’t clinging to him I would have fallen to the floor again. I don’t know where I find the strength to hang onto him. If he tried to remove me I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Please,” I choke. I don’t need to lie down. I don’t know how to explain what I need.

He’s lifting me off of himself, placing me on the bed again. At least he doesn’t pull away. I wouldn’t be able to pull him back again.

“Ryou, I’ll be right back. I need to call. . .” I know he doesn’t know who to call. Someone who’ll know what to do. Someone who can fix me, perhaps. I didn’t realize until now that he was so panicked. Usually he can handle everything himself. Usually he knows just what path to take to help his friends in his own stubborn way. Have I scared him that badly?

“No.” I’m so stupidly sure that there is no one else in this world who can help me right now. Just Honda. “I need you.”

He softens a little, arms slipping around me again. His closeness makes me feel so much safer, makes it possible for me to relax.

“I need you,” I gasp again. “I’m not sick, I just. . . I don’t have any strength.” I think he believes me. I hope I’m right. I think it was just the dream.

I don’t want to think about the dream.

“It was only. . .” I’m trembling again. He’s holding me so tight. I want to soak up his warmth for a few more minutes. “It was him. The other me. I just. . .” just got too close to him.

I’m afraid to tell Honda what I’ve seen. Now that I’m back on level ground I think it must have been a memory, not a dream. A memory of another life, another Honda. Not my Honda.

“Please don’t leave me.”

He left me before. The man my other self was meeting in his dream-memory. I know it as surely as I know my own name. He died without me. . . we were reborn without him. . .

But it wasn’t me. My Honda is right here beside me, holding me safe. This is our time, not a memory. I refuse to think of him in terms of what I felt in that dream-memory. He’s real and alive and here. He has to be.

“I’m not going to leave you.”

I believe him. Not just because I’m begging him not to. He’s probably afraid I’ll do myself some harm if left alone. I don’t care, as long as he’s here.

“Ryou, what happened?”

“I don’t know.” I saw my other self’s life. I felt what he felt. Knew what he knew. The recoil made me sick. I can’t tell Honda. I can’t tell him that there was another him who was not him. I can’t tell him that the other me hated him so passionately that the echo of that feeling made me sick even after it had slept for thousands of years.

Honda makes no move to release or abandon me, and I’m so busy soaking up that feeling I can hardly pay attention to his questioning, “Was it a nightmare?”

I nod. “It was real.”

He doesn’t doubt that it could be both. I love him even more for that. “What did he do to you?”

I know he did nothing to me on purpose, and I shudder at how effective that nothing was. I know I can’t explain, but explaining is keeping him here. If it keeps him here, I have to try. “He showed me,” I gulp back the words ‘our past’ and say instead, “his dream.”

I can’t believe I’m blaming him, but Honda wants for it to be his fault, I think. I’m too weak to disappoint him and risk him letting go when I don’t have the strength to hold onto him.

Honda doesn’t seem to understand. He simply holds me tight and that’s all that I need.

“I got too close to. . . all of it. Got too close to him.” I know it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have wanted me to see his dream. “He wasn’t trying to, it just. . .” I don’t know how to explain.

I don’t have to. Honda lays one finger across my lips. He murmurs in my ear to ‘shush.’ I’m almost sure now he’s not going to try to call a doctor to treat ‘evil spirit shock’ or whatever this is.

“What do you need?” He looks oddly helpless. He only understands that I’m hurting, and can’t see what to do about it. He wants to do something about it. I want to laugh, I’m so happy. He’s so kind to me.

“I don’t know.” I’ve made myself sick from fighting with my other self before, but never this sick. “I think I just need rest.”

He’s watching me, cautious. I hope he’s thinking he can’t leave me alone like this. I hope he won’t send me home to rest. I’m afraid to lose sight of him. I’m afraid I’ll slip back into the dream without him.

“Honda, I need you.”

He almost laughs, sounding lost again, “What can I do?”

“I just need you.” Just having him here keeps me safe. I want him to see all of the love and trust shining in my eyes. I only need him to be himself, and no one else.

The me who is not me, he could never admit what he needed. He would never let himself need anyone. I can admit it. I don’t know if I’m stronger or weaker than him in admitting it. I only know that I am different, and that is enough.

“I love you.”

He looks so surprised at first. Then sad. He shifts to help me lie down, but at least he isn’t leaving me. “You said you needed rest, right?”

I nod, trembling. He can hate me for loving him, or for saying it out loud, but I hope he’ll wait to hate me until after I’m sure that I’m firmly back in my own body and my own time. As long as I’m like this, shaking and sick and terrified of slipping, I need him.

“Honda, I. . .”

“Quiet.” He puts fingers over my lips again to hush me. I’ll have to be careful not to tell him it makes me want to keep talking, just to feel my lips brushing against his fingers. “When you feel better, you can tell me all about it.”

About what? What more is there to tell? I love him. I love his solid, stubborn, unpredictable, kind self. That’s all.

“I. . .”

“Shh.” Arms around me to keep me warm and safe and anchored. “I’m not going to leave you now.” He looks at me so seriously that I couldn’t have protested again if I wanted to. “We can talk later, okay? When you’re sure what you’re saying.”

I do mean what I said. I mean it a thousand times over. I’d wait forever if he asked me just now, though. I’d do anything he asked at this moment, just to stay this way.

“Sleep.”

Not the easiest request. I’m afraid of dreams again. Not the hardest request he could give, either. My eyes are already slipping. As long as he stays near, I’ll sleep.

I doze, too nervous to sleep and too tired to wake. Even I drift in and out I know I’m secure next to Honda. His closeness will keep me from falling into the other’s past, I’m sure.

Without thinking, I move closer, safe in his arms, and sleep.


	2. After Sickness in Dreams: Honda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right after Bakura falls asleep in part 1.

“Love, is it?”

Honda didn’t know what to believe. He had known there was something going on with Ryou, with the way he acted when they were together, especially alone together, the way he reacted a little too strongly to whatever Honda did. Honda had just never realized that it could be that.

Now he was watching Ryou sleep, curled against him. He didn’t know if he believed that Ryou had made himself sick simply by getting too close to his other self, but it was obvious that leaving him alone right now would do him more harm than good. He was delirious, and Honda thought he had blacked out for a few seconds in the bathroom, staring into space as if unable to respond.

He was sleeping peacefully now. Honda would have gone and called for a doctor as soon as Ryou dozed off, but he didn’t think he could get Ryou to stop clinging without waking him up.

Tentatively, Honda touched Ryou’s face. His skin had warmed, and he was no longer deathly pale. Honda wasn’t sure if this was because his body heat was helping Ryou or because he was recovering on his own. He hoped the real cause might just be something like food poisoning, or a sudden, unreasonably nasty, bout of flu. He didn’t think there was anything he could do that would help Ryou recover from the aftershock of being possessed.

According to Ryou he just needed rest, and Honda. That only made Honda feel more helpless, knowing that Ryou thought he could help when he really had no idea what to do for him. All he could do was hold Ryou and watch over his sleep.

After trying for so long to figure out what was wrong with Ryou, why he was being so shy and secretive and downright skittish, knowing what was going through Ryou’s head almost made it worse. There wasn’t anything he could attack head-on. All he knew to do was to watch over Ryou, and that just didn’t feel like enough.

Maybe Ryou had been delirious. Maybe he had even confused Honda with someone else. Maybe he hadn’t said a thing about love, Honda could have simply misheard him.

Maybe, Honda thought as he stroked Ryou’s cheek lightly with one finger, he was just a tiny bit in denial.

What would it mean if Ryou really was in love with him? Honda had done everything he could think of to make his friend understand that he would always be there for him, would always support him and care for him. He had given Ryou enough support that he had gone and blurted out a confession, and he couldn’t withdraw his support after that. He had wanted to know, and now he just had to deal with it the best he could.

Actually, Honda didn’t think he wanted to withdraw anything. He wanted to offer Ryou even more support, to prove they could move past this.

Now he knew what had been making Ryou act so awkwardly. Worse, he had some idea of just how many signs there had been. He had ignored them all, convinced that Ryou’s discomfort had to do with something other than him. He had never allowed himself to think that he was the source of Ryou’s troubles.

Well, maybe the problem was not him so much as the confused jumble and feelings and words between them. Had he ever said anything to encourage Ryou’s feelings? Or to discourage them? He couldn’t be sure, but he would bet Ryou had been picking up some mixed signals, with him trying to be close to his friend, yet he had made no honest move to bring them closer in the way Ryou wanted.

How could he guess what Ryou wanted? Knowing what Ryou felt didn’t seem to get him any closer to understanding what Ryou expected of him, let alone what he needed.

‘Love’ had never even occurred to him. He was glad Ryou was still sleeping, because he was not ready to deal with the word. It would be so easy to say he wanted nothing beyond friendship, nothing like this. He knew Ryou would accept that at face value, and even move on, hopefully.

While he was at it, he could pretend he had never heard a word about love, not from Ryou.

No. Delusions obviously wouldn’t take hold and solve this for him. He couldn’t ignore it. Yet he didn’t want to face it, didn’t even want to think about talking about it. What could he even say? He couldn’t just push Ryou away, even over something as uncomfortable as this, but Honda didn’t think he could even admit that he liked the feeling of holding Ryou.

Once that train of thought was in his head, it was impossible to dislodge it. He did like looking after Ryou, but it had always been as a friend. Keeping him safe from physical harm was very different from trying to look after Ryou’s all-too-breakable heart.

At least one thing seemed to be turning out right. Ryou was sleeping peacefully, still curled in his arms. There was little he could do but keep Ryou safe and warm, but he did seem to be recovering. He was no longer trembling, and his body was reassuringly warm. Each deep, calm breath he took told Honda that he had done something right, because Ryou was peaceful at last.

All he could do, Honda finally decided, was to watch over Ryou. When Ryou woke, he would be there. When Ryou needed him, he would be there for his friend. He would support Ryou the same way he always had. All thoughts of Ryou’s confession of love could come after that.


	3. After Sickness in Dreams: Bakura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning after parts 1+2.

I don’t want to wake. For a moment I don’t know where, or when, I’ll find myself if I open my eyes, and I don’t like the feeling one bit. The dark, dreamless oblivion behind my eyes seems like a good hiding place.

Then I’m very aware of the taste. It feels as if something has crawled into my mouth and died there while I slept. It’s impossible to ignore, and even as I try I start to become aware of the world around me.

I remember cold tile bruising my knees, being sick, shaking with fear, the sour burn of hate on my tongue. The world suddenly seems so much warmer and softer than I remember. I feel safe, and strangely happy because of the feeling of someone holding me firmly, with their breath ghosting against my ear and warming me through my hair.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know it’s Honda. My Honda.

He’s not mine, I know that all too well. I’m just glad to be sure that at least he’s not a dream, nor a ghost of the past. He’s real and solid and comforting and here.

And not mine.

I open my eyes slowly, because I haven’t forgotten what I told him last night, and I don’t know how he’s decided to react to it. He doesn’t have an angry or disgusted look to turn on me, but that doesn’t mean much. He’s fallen asleep.

I smile at his sleeping face, because he looks so serious. Has he been guarding me ever so carefully, even in his sleep? No wonder I feel so comfortable like this. If not for the taste in my mouth I would be tempted to kiss his set lips, if only to see if his serious expression would change.

Instead I try to slip out from under his arm. I freeze and have to struggle not to hyperventilate when his hand suddenly grips the back of my shirt. After a moment or two of panic I realize that he’s still sleeping. It’s not hard to work his fingers loose, though I truly don’t want to.

After I manage to slip out of his arms, I can’t help looking at him for a minute. He’s been so kind to me. Even if he doesn’t love me. . . and I know he doesn’t love me. He would have told me himself if he did, wouldn’t he? He’s honest about his own thoughts. It’s one of the little things I love about him, after all.

But even if he doesn’t love me, I think he would forgive me for loving him. Even if it bothers him, I think we’ll get around it. It’s not like we have any choice but to deal with it now, and I don’t want to contemplate that he might be truly angry with me.

If he hated me for it he wouldn’t have stayed to watch over me as I slept.

I could watch him until he wakes, but there’s something I crawled out of his arms to do. I slip out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom. Last time I had to stay over he showed me where his parents keep spare toothbrushes for guests. Ones his dad picks up from hotels, he told me. Even though he helped me rinse my mouth out, I can still taste stale vomit, and that needs to change before I even try to talk to him.

No matter how I try to focus on the task at hand, I can’t forget that a moment ago I was asleep next to him. I slept in his bed, in his arms, as if I belonged there. Now, using his toothpaste, I feel like an intruder. The crinkle as I wad up the plastic wrapper from the toothbrush and toss it in the trash makes me feel guilty, because I haven’t asked him for permission. Each tiny thing I do might be an inconvenience for him, and I wouldn’t even know. For all I know he would rather me out of his house. I’ve been enough trouble to him, in so many ways.

It’s such a relief to be able to wash away the taste in my mouth with powerful mint. I have to think about what I want to say to him, but my mind keeps freezing. To just confess and then fall asleep on him seems so simple, if unfair to him, but what comes next? There really isn’t anything more to say, is there? Even if he wants an explanation, I can’t think of what to say to him.

I can’t think of how to explain myself to Honda, so I move automatically, wanting to at least be back with him before he wakes up and finds me gone. Brush, spit, rinse, then look up into the mirror to realize I somehow don’t look like hell, no matter what I felt like a few hours ago. It’s not until I notice that much that it occurs to me that I don’t feel half-dead anymore.

And I can see Honda in the mirror, standing in the doorway. I’m too late. I won’t be able to slip back under his arm again before he wakes, it seems. I feel guilty for wanting to, but I do. For all I know that was my one last chance to be that close to him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” That’s all I can think of to say. Does he intend to talk about it? Will he demand answers I don’t have ready for him? Would he rather forget I confessed to him at all?

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He steps into the bathroom, right up behind me, resting his hands on the sink on either side of me. I don’t dare turn and face him, but I can’t tear my eyes away from his in the mirror. There must be something I can say. He can’t want me to leave. He’s trapping me here with his arms, and that much I’m glad for.

“Earlier, did you say something about-”

“I love you.” There is no taking it back now. I don’t know if he was asking for me to pretend the words never slipped out, but I can’t do it. Even if he wants me to I can’t lie. There is no taking back the truth, not from him.

He lets go of the sink, then slowly wraps his arms around me. I don’t know what to do. What does he want me to do? I can hardly breathe. I’m too afraid that whatever’s happening here, it might end if I make a single wrong move.

When Honda hugs me back against his chest I want to melt into him. He has one arm clasped across my chest, his hand on my shoulder. His other arm lies around my waist so that his hand rests on my hip. What can I say to make this moment never end?

“So,” he breathes the word softly into my ear, “Where do we go from here?”


End file.
